It was baby shower time at work yesterday.
Like most writers, I constantly mine my own life for writing material.
There’s a big wild, world just outside our backyard.
She wore a hijab, a scarf around her neck, a baggy sweater, and a long, black skirt.
Like most parents, I love it when someone compliments my son.
Oh look, a kindergarten student has been expelled for showing up to school with a Mohawk.
Our waitress couldn’t have been more than nine-teen-years-old.
We were playing in the bath, Graham and I, when he very deliberately pointed at my breast.
I read something last week that made me cry.
Motherhood is not for wimps.